PREFACE

Whether your kids call you Dad, Pop, or Daddy,—and whether your loving spouse refers to you as Honey, Sweetie, or Oh, crap, what did you do now? —Dad Rules is an extremely important training text for dads of all experience levels: longtime dads, new dads, and dads-to-be.

OK, so extremely is a bit much . . . and maybe important is, too. But we do know that Dad Rules will put a smile on the face of any man who has navigated—or is about to navigate—the often curvy, pothole-filled roads of fatherhood. And the responsibility of being behind the wheel on such an unpredictable journey can often be unsettling, especially with a two-year-old in the backseat, happily smearing his ice cream over every inch of available window, and your wife next to you, offering her always helpful advice to Slow down, Turn left at the next . . . aw, you missed it, and I knew we should have brought a map.

But fear not, men, because now you have Dad Rules to act as your GPS! First, we’ll guide you from that life-altering moment when your wife says, Honey, we need to talk, but you misunderstand and wonder how in the world she found out about the $1,200 you laid out for new golf clubs. Then we’ll take you through pregnancy and birthing classes (even offering a few excuses for missing a session or two), followed by an entirely plausible story you can tell the emergency room physician to explain how your brand new nine iron found itself lodged in your backside.

The next stop will be the birth center, where we will lead you through the birthing process and try to get you acclimated to just a few of the unflattering names your wife will undoubtedly call you, particularly during the final moments immediately before your precious little one makes an entrance.

But as soon as that beautiful, spectacular little person you helped create peers at you with those dark brown eyes, all of that is forgotten; and as you hold your one-minute-old infant for the very first time, you experience a feeling you’ve never felt before . . . in fact, it’s one you never even imagined.

Congratulations, Dad. And as you take in a deep breath of that unmistakable new baby smell, you vow that you will love this child forever.

And you will. But it will not always be as easy as it is at that moment, because all a newborn does for the first month or so is take food in, then pass it back out; a feat performed with amazing regularity. And how will all this change your life? Well, only two or three years ago, your favorite sentence was, Who’s in for beer pong? Now it’s, Hey, look everybody, my little cutie made poo-poo again!

Then, before you know it, your little genius will begin making sounds, which will eventually become words, which will eventually become sentences.

Life sentences.

Sentences like, Why? Because I don’t want to! will progress to, The problem with my grades is that my teacher hates me. Next, you’ll be hearing things like, Chill, Dad. It’s not like we don’t have car insurance, and then, the most dreaded words of all, which dads often hear after a child graduates from college: Aaaahhh, it sure is nice to be back in my old room again.

So fasten your seat belt, keep your eyes on the road, and enjoy the journey of being a dad. It will be quite a trip.

ONE

GAME ON!

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The sun is shining; the birds are chirping; and you? You feel like you might vomit. That’s because you are on your company’s softball team; it’s the bottom of the last inning of your first game of the year, the bases are loaded, and you are at bat. What’s more, there are two outs and your team trails by one run. It all comes down to you. But what’s really got your stomach tumbling is something that you never shared with your teammates: you suck at softball. In high school, you concentrated on more cerebral pursuits. You lettered in diving and served as president of the Computer Club (two terms!).

But of course you didn’t mention any of this when your boss was scrambling for enough players to field a team. In fact, you told him you were quite a baseball player back in the day. If it weren’t for the arm injury, who knows how far you could have gone? You did this for two reasons: One, you are a guy; embellishing your past athletic prowess is in your DNA, just like scratching yourself and forgetting to zip your pants. Two, as one of the company’s newest hires, you figured being on a company team would provide an excellent opportunity to meet people in other departments, to enjoy the camaraderie of being part of a group, and to get some exercise. To totally humiliate yourself was not on your list.

The umpire calls Strike one! for everyone to hear. You look over to the bench. Your coach, who is also your boss, wears an incredulous expression that says, This guy played baseball in high school? At where? Saint Dweeb’s?

You stare out at the pitcher as you recall your previous two at-bats.

Your first time up, you struck out; but your coach/boss said it was a horrible call, so you felt somewhat exonerated. The second time, you swung mightily and dinked one all the way back to the pitcher, who threw you out at first by about twenty-five feet.

As you dig in for the next pitch, you hear their third baseman yell to the pitcher, C’mon, Jenny, just put it over. This guy can’t hit!

Oh, yeah? you think to yourself. Well watch this, fat man!

As the ball arcs toward you, you prepare to whack one, secretly hoping that you will somehow make contact and carom one off that loud mouth third baseman’s large and expanding forehead. You swing with everything you’ve got, and nearly fall down.

Strike two! says the umpire as the ball bounces two feet in front of home plate.

It’s now that you know you’re hosed. Your face feels flush as you realize that you are about to become the laughingstock of the company. You have a vision of yourself getting fired and everyone in the company cheering as you’re booted out the front door, carrying a cardboard box of your paltry belongings. Next, you envision your wife standing on the front porch of the house you two recently bought. She is weeping as a man pounds a BANK REPOssEssION sign on your front lawn, which is brown because your water was shut off six weeks earlier.

As the pitcher starts her windup, you sigh—grateful that your wife wasn’t feeling well enough to be at the game and to witness your demise.

You clear your head just in time to see the pitcher release the ball. As it floats toward you, everything slows down. As strike three approaches, you picture yourself and your wife living in a tent village on the banks of a cement aqueduct that carries the city’s sludge out to sea. Oh, well, you think. You always dreamed of having a place right on the water.

A disheveled, toothless man walks by, and you ask if you can borrow a match to light a can of Sterno. It’s your birthday and your wife wants to heat you up a twoweek-old donut she found in a dumpster behind the police station. But he says, No way! I ain’t giving squat to the loser who struck out with the bases loaded!

And then, the ball is almost upon you. You close your eyes and swing. And amazingly, you feel something hit your bat. Then you hear cheers coming from your teammates, and you open your eyes just in time to see the ball lofting toward left field. You drop your bat and run as fast as you can, spurred on by your imaginary toothless neighbor, who’s right on your heels with a flaming tiki torch.

The other team’s chiseled left fielder, who—rumor has it—was once drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates, races for the ball. Oh, no! you think. He actually has a chance to catch it. He dives and extends his arm . . . thunk! The ball lands squarely in his glove. You can’t believe your bad luck. You could’ve been a hero! It could have meant a promotion! A bigger house! That German-made two-seat Roadster you’ve been eyeing! But now, nothing but stale dumpster donuts.

And then, as Mr. All-Star hits the ground, the ball pops loose. Your team goes crazy! One run scores! Two runs score! As your teammates spill from the dugout, you stand on first base, not totally sure of what just happened. You see them rushing to you, and for a split second you fear that you might be in for a public flogging. But you soon figure it out when they hoist you onto their shoulders and carry you around the infield, shouting your name. Grimsky! Grimsky!" they chant.

Dang, you wish your wife were here.

Later, after pizza and beer, the check comes; but you’re not allowed to throw in so much as a nickel. Heroes don’t pay! your boss says.

You haven’t received this many pats on the back since your junior year of high school, when you figured out how to hack into your chemistry teacher’s computer to give all your friends a sneak peek at the midterm.

You get home around six, bursting to tell your wife every detail of your heroics. But when you walk in, the first thing you see is the dining table set for two. The candles are lit and the lights are low. The evening reeks of romance.

Oh, no, you think, as you check today’s date on your iPhone. It’s not your anniversary, her birthday, the date you got engaged, or even the anniversary of your first date together. So what’s the deal?

Hi, sweetie, your wife says as she comes out of the kitchen. She is wearing a slinky dress and looks even more spectacular than usual.

Hi, you answer tentatively. Wow, you say, indicating the table. What’s up?

Oh, nothing, she says with an impish smile. I just thought we’d have a nice, quiet dinner at home. You OK with that?

You bet, you say, giving her a big kiss.

So how was the game?

You tell her the whole story . . . except the part about your first two at-bats and that the opposing pitcher’s name was Jenny. After you finish, she throws her arms around your shoulders and says, My hero. Then she follows that with an amazingly long and tender kiss.

You determine that the night might be